


Hanging on the Telephone

by enemyfrigate



Category: Justified
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beaches, Bisexual Male Character, Blow Jobs, Books, Coming Out, Developing Relationship, First Time, M/M, Miami, Past Tim/Mark UST, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Canon, Relationship(s), Safer Sex, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3810829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enemyfrigate/pseuds/enemyfrigate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Raylan moves back to Miami, Tim starts calling him, and he and Raylan connect in ways impossible in Kentucky.</p><p>Or, Raylan and Tim share several phone calls, a couple of visits, and some secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hanging on the Telephone

**Author's Note:**

> After the finale, I thought I would just dash something off, sort of a riff off another post-canon piece I've been working on...apparently I don't just dash things off anymore.
> 
> "Hanging on the Telephone" is a reference to the Blondie song, but that association came later, after I'd written half of it, so it's not a song fic. However, the lyrics are somewhat relevant.

“That was a good book,” Tim says down the phone, words pinging from Kentucky to space and back down to Florida.

“Um, huh?” Raylan had picked up the phone from a doze, answered without looking at the screen.

“Did I wake you up?” Tim’s drawl is as pointed as it ever was.

It’s good to hear his voice. “Yeah, I’m watching the baby. She fell asleep awhile back and there’s nothing on TV.”

“Oh, that explains it. Here I thought you just got old.”

“What do you want, Gutterson?” But Raylan’s grinning, a little. His Miami colleagues are good people, but none of them are entertaining quite the same way as Tim.

“I missed your voice.”

“Fuck off,” Raylan says, and glances over at the baby. Still asleep. She doesn’t seem to notice profanity, but Winona wants them to get in the habit now, before she picks up on everything they say.

“I’m sitting here in the suburbs surveilling an empty house. Seriously bored.”

“All by yourself?”

“Your replacement is both wet behind the ears and has a sick kid.” Tim slurps on a straw. “I read your book. Pretty good. Should have had more dragons.”

“Dragons don’t come up much in the modern criminal world. Had good criminals though.”

“Dragons are better.”

Not an argument he’s going to win. “You could pencil some into the margins, you want.”

There is what Raylan imagines to be a considering silence.

“Maybe I should write a book myself. Got plenty of time right now,” Tim says.

“Would it have dragons in it?”

“All books are better with dragons. Didn’t we already establish that?”

Raylan gets out of the armchair in the baby’s room and peeks at Willa. Still breathing. “Whatever you say.

Silence for a few seconds. Then, “You want to have phone sex?”

“That’s not very professional. And sure, let’s have phone sex, even though we’re both straight, and you once told me that phone sex is like eating generic brand diet candy.”

“Raylan. So. Bored.”

“I’m not having sex with you, phone or any other kind.”

“Maybe I should transfer to Miami. You guys have interesting criminals down there, right?”

“Sometimes. What's going on in the good old eastern district of Kentucky?”

“The office gas budget is down like 20 percent, since we don’t have to go chasing down to Harlan all the time, with Boyd locked up.”

“Fascinating.” Raylan would prefer never to hear the words Boyd or Crowder again in this lifetime. Lucky thing Boyd’s lawyer worked out a plea deal - pretty much keeping him off death row in exchange for life plus 50 - and Raylan won’t have to go back for a trial or trials.

Not going back means he won’t end up punching out Vasquez, either, which he supposes is a good thing. He doesn’t want to go to jail over that prick.

“You missed a hell of a retirement party. I almost talked Art into getting a tattoo.” Tim slurps the straw again.

“A tattoo of what?”

“I suggested a giant flaming skull. Rachel thought he should get a Marshal’s star. Unfortunately, we had to abort the mission when Leslie intercepted us before we could get Art out the door.”

“She ain't big but she is mighty.”

“Probably for the best. We might have been too drunk to drive.”

“Rule of thumb: too drunk to drive is too drunk to decide to get a tattoo.”

Tim snorts. “Says the guy who doesn’t have any.”

The door downstairs opens and shuts. Winona.

Raylan switches the phone to his other ear, tugs Willa’s blanket up, and pads downstairs bare foot. “I’ve got to go. Winona’s home.”

“So no phone sex?”

“I am not stepping out on Winona, not for you.”

“Phone sex isn’t cheating.”

Man, when Tim finds a line of whimsy he likes he just won’t be distracted. Raylan has learned to roll with it. “Why would I have phone sex with you when Winona’s right here?”

“Point. Plus she would kick my ass.”

“Good night, Tim.”

“I’m going to write a shitty crime book on my phone and dedicate it to you.”

“Hanging up now.” Raylan hits end call.

Winona’s stepping out of her heels in the kitchen. “What’re you smiling about?”

“Ah, nothing.” Raylan kisses her hello. “You want to fool around?”

“Let me just check on Willa first.”

“Ten-four. Meet you in the bedroom.”

 

 

 

The next time Tim calls, Raylan is sitting outside the Marshals office in downtown Miami in his Marshal Service SUV, trying to decide whether to go home or go to a bar. Winona and the baby are at her mother’s, have been for the past week, and it don’t look like they’re coming home.

There’s nowhere he wants to be but drunk.

“It’s sleeting,” Tim announces, when Raylan picks up the phone.

“Seventy degrees here,” Raylan says. He’ been hoping it was Dan with something for him to do, but he’ll take any distraction. “And sunny.”

First time he’s heard from Tim in two months, except a short work email about one of their old cases.

“It’s April. Not sure if this is the apocalypse or some other kind of planet destroying event.”

Raylan does not miss winter weather. “Well, it’ll keep all the bad guys inside.”

“Yeah, but we still have to go around knocking on doors. Like responsible law enforcement officers.”

“At least you aren’t in a tree with your rifle.”

A pause. Then, “There is that.”

Tim sounds off.

Well, hell, you spend enough time driving around and chasing fugitives with a guy, he qualifies as a friend. Not like Raylan has that many. “Something up?”

“The new Chief had a sit down with me,” Tim says, sardonic verging on pissed. “Says I shoot too many people. Thinks I need help.”

Maybe killing is a little too all-in-a-day’s-work for Tim, but damn.

“What’s he making you do?” Keep it straight forward Givens. He’s not looking for a hug.

“See a shrink.”

“Marshal Service doc or outside?”

“I have to be ‘evaluated’ by someone they pick.”

That’s not good. An official evaluation goes in the file. A bad or even iffy report from the shrink could be used to fire a deputy, later on, or worse, to shift the blame if something goes wrong and the public notices. “Did you call Art?”

“No, I didn’t. Not in the habit of running to Daddy every time I get in trouble. Plus, It’s not his problem anymore.” Surly.

“Tim. Call Art.” Raylan says, with all the authority he can drum up. “Do it after you hang up with me. Bet he can run some interference.”

“I don’t know. The new Chief is a stickler.” Adds, with all the derision of a soldier for a civilian,  
“Probably hasn’t been in the field since I was in high school.”

Raylan nods. After losing Ava and the money, the USM had declined to confirm Rachel as Art’s replacement, brought in a real rules-loving hard ass when Art retired. The Marshal Service has its chair sitters, just like any law enforcement agency. “You know bureaucrats, cover-your-ass is a way of life.”

“Roger that.”

Raylan thinks he can hear the sleet, on a windshield. probably. “You driving somewhere?”

“Sitting in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. Waiting for the weather to make up its mind.”

“The exciting life of a deputy Marshal.”

“If I say I miss your ass, it’s just the boredom talking. Maybe a little rage.”

“Boredom outrages you?” That can’t be right. A guy who can sit on a mountainside for four days straight waiting to take a shot is a guy who can handle boredom.

“The weather outrages me. It’s sleeting on flowers, man.Tulips and daffodils. That’s not right.”

“Your concern for the flowers of the field touches me, it truly does.” Raylan never knows what Tim’s going to come up with. “Anything else I can help with? I got places to be.”

“Well, I guess we’re done catching up,” Tim says.

“Unless you want to have gay phone sex with a straight guy.”

Tim snickers. “You could pretend to be a woman. How’s your falsetto?”

“Terrible. Go call Art.”

After they hang up, Raylan drops the phone on the passenger seat, decides to head straight for a bar. He’ll call Art later, make sure Tim got in touch. He’s been lucky to have Chiefs who let him be about his shootings, understanding the exigencies of the job. He’s had to do some shrink sessions, here and there, but he figures that’s the price of admission.

He's never seen the draw of talking about it, even with someone who knows so well what it’s like, would never have exposed himself to Tim that way, and he suspects, vice versa.

Now he’s getting phone calls out of the blue from Tim, and though Raylan’s happy to catch up, he doesn’t know where that’s come from.

Also, Raylan lied. He’s not completely straight, though he plays a straight guy on TV, as the saying goes. Makes life a lot easier.

A handful of hook ups and short relationships over the last twenty years - except during his marriage to Winona - has gotten it out of his system, so far.

Might be time to start going out to see the boys again.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, Raylan has some drinking to do.

 

 

Three weeks later, Raylan drags himself home from a 56 hour chase through various and sundry Floridian swamps. He’s covered in mud and bug bites, sunburned, and dying for a beer.

He drops his fugitive, who looks just as bad and actually smells a whole lot worse, at the local lock-up, and hauls his carcass back to the condo.

There’s a message from Winona on his land line voice mail at the new apartment: _Raylan, Tim Gutterson is trying to get in touch with you. Says he can’t get you on your cell._

His phone had been a casualty of the swamp, two days ago. Probably in a gator’s belly by now. Well, whatever it is will have to wait. He’s too damn tired to check his voice mail.

Once he gets in the shower, it occurs to Raylan that Tim could have just called him at the office. Wonders what he wants that he’d call the land line at Winona’s. Doesn’t waste too much time considering it, though. He’ll find out soon enough. Right now he’s just going to enjoy getting clean.

After the hot water beats on him enough to sluice the mud and who knows what off, Raylan reaches for the soap and lathers up, scrubs ‘til the water coming off him runs clear, and gets out.

He wraps the damp towel around his hips, grabs a cold beer from the kitchen, and goes into the bedroom to get on the land line.

This time, it’s Raylan who just starts talking when Tim picks up with a muttered _Gutterson_.

“What’s so urgent you had to call Winona to track me down?” Raylan stretches back on the bed. The towel comes untucked and ends up on the floor, but he can't bring himself to care. It's his bedroom. He can lay there naked if he wants to.

Right now, he’s clean and his sunburn and bug bites are covered in aloe gel. The ceiling fan sends lazy breezes over his damp skin. He has a cold beer in hand. Life is much improved.

“Uh, I didn’t know you’d moved out. I wasn’t calling Winona, I was calling you.”

“Oh. Yeah. Turns out, third time was not the charm,” Raylan says. He uses that phrase on everybody to close the topic down.

“That sucks. I’m sorry, man.”

“It is what it is. What can I do for you?” Raylan doubles up a pillow, wedges it under his head.

“I’m meeting some Army buddies in the Keys next month to go fishing. Figure I’ll fly into Miami, thought we could get a drink.”

“Yeah, sure. What day?”

“Friday evening or Saturday. Weekend of the 25th. Whatever works. I’m not meeting the guys ‘til Saturday night.”

“Give me a call when you get in.”

“Roger that.”

“Talked to Art the other day,” Raylan says.

“Yeah? I hear the RV life suits him. Trying to get him to go to Burning Man.”

“Are you attempting to turn him into some kind of counter culture outlaw? Tattoos, Burning Man. What’s next, LSD?”

“If you don’t think Art did some good drugs in college you are very naive. Like I told him, he doesn’t work for the federal government anymore. He can do any drugs he wants.”

“Those were the days.” He’d had some fun in college, in between trying to keep his grades up enough to get into the Marshal Service.

“Yeah, I miss pot.”

“You never went to college, did you?”

“Smoked some in high school. Then in the Army, we smoked a lot stateside. Best way to come down from deployment.”

Raylan frowns. “Didn’t they drug test you guys?”

“They kind of let us do whatever we wanted,” Tim says. “They gave us all kinds of uppers and downers in the field, and I know those weren’t strictly on the up and up. The docs prescribed it, but it wasn’t aspirin. The regular infantry had it stricter, but they looked the other way a lot for us. Long as we delivered.”

Learn something new every day. “Knowing you, I’m not sure I want to be around you when you’re on drugs.”

“I am all kinds of fun, no matter what,” Tim says.

“Uh huh. You get that thing straightened out with your Chief?”

“I called Art, like you said, and a couple days later, Chief calls me in and says he reconsidered, and strongly advised - I mean, those were the words he used - strongly advised me to see a counselor outside work. Waste of time, but better than the other thing.”

“There you go.”

Tim takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Yeah. The therapist I’m seeing seems okay so far.”

“How’d you get an appointment that fast? You go to the VA?” 

“Nah, VA’s backed up for months. She’s sort of a friend of a friend of Rachel’s.”

“Just make sure you express remorse, so she doesn’t think you’re a psychopath.” 

“Aren’t too many kills I have any doubt about.”

“You don’t get even a little twinge after?”

A pause. “Maybe it’s different for me. All my training was geared towards taking the shot. Making decisions under pressure.  We weren’t supposed to stop and think about that shit. “

“Not even later? When you got home?”

Tim doesn't say anything right away, and when he does, it’s not really an answer. “Man, I hate talking about that shit. People don’t get it. Not even you. I kill when it’s necessary, and I’m okay with that. I’m not some alien freak. I’m just a soldier.”

Okay. This is above Raylan’s pay grade. “Ah, don’t sweat it. There’s nothing wrong with you - not professionally, anyway - and it’s not like they won’t use you to do their dirty work when it suits ‘em.”

“No shit.”

This is getting a little dark and depressing. “You just need to go out and get laid,” Raylan says. “You and me both.”

Tim takes the subject change in stride. “How do you know I’m not? I’m not asking you to have phone sex, am I?”

“'Cause I know you, and you’re usually a lot more, uh, upbeat, when you’re getting it regular.”

“No strings attached sex is a lot harder to come by than it should be,” Tim says. “It’s a lot easier living near an army base.”

“I will keep that in mind, when I get back in the saddle.”

“Still smarting about Winona?”

“Yeah, a little. I see her because of the baby so it’s hard to let go. But I’d rather spend nights with Willa than out picking up women, anyway.” Raylan finishes the beer, thinks about getting up for another, is too comfortable to move. Shoves the empty bottle onto the night table, where it rocks but doesn’t fall.

“I’m getting another call.” Tim says. “I’ll let you know you when I get the details firmed up.”

 

 

 

The hotel loses Tim’s reservation, and Raylan offers him the living room couch. It’s raining, but they go out anyway, first to Joe’s Stone Crab ( Raylan has the fried chicken and Tim has crab legs) and they hit a few bars on the strip. The rain turns torrential, and they make the executive decision to go back to Raylan’s place and drink there.

Tim ends up sitting on the tile floor in front of the couch, leaning back, dangling a tumbler of bourbon from two fingers.

“How’s the shrink thing going?” On the other end of the couch, actually sitting on the cushions, Raylan maintains unilateral control over the bottle of Buffalo Trace. He’s only got the one bottle of the good stuff, and bourbon disappears around Tim like water in the desert.

“She is way more interested in talking about my childhood and why I don’t want a long term relationship than in why I have no problem shooting scum bags.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Yeah, damn her for making me talk about my psyche like it’s her job.” Tim sips bourbon. He holds the glass close like he’s afraid he'll drop it. “I can put up with talking about my goddamn feelings for 45 minutes a week for a couple more months. If she wants to sit there and listen to me talk about all the girls I’ve never committed to and how my old man was a piece of shit, well, that’s her look out.”

“Clearly, she should have thought things through before taking you on.”

“I agree, it’s all her fault.” Tim tips his head back on the sofa. “It’s okay. I got some things I wanted to talk about, anyway, and she can’t tell me to fuck off.”

He’s never much seen the point of therapy himself, but Raylan remembers Tim saying something offhand once about seeing some counselor as he was getting out of the military, a joke about fooling the Marshal Service psych tests, which hadn't entirely been a joke, though it's hard to tell with Tim. Says, "That would be unprofessional, I agree."

“So tell me about your Floridian adventures. Encountered any rampaging serial killers?”

“Florida has more than its fair share of weird crimes, but I don’t think I’ve ever dealt with one of those. There was this one guy -”

As Raylan tells that story, he relaxes back into the couch, watches Tim. He’s told this story a hundred times, and he tells himself he just enjoys his audience’s reaction, but the odd intimacy of hanging out, one on one, not on the job together, is making him look at Tim in ways he never really thought about. The line of his throat, and the crinkle around his eyes when he snickers into the bourbon, the twist of the tendons in his forearm, as he impatiently holds out the tumbler for a refill.

When he finishes the story, which involves one of those Everglades swamp boats and swimming for his life from imaginary gators, Tim laughs. Raylan makes himself look away, toward the windows.

Tim starts telling some story about Mark, whitewater rafting on leave and freezing their asses off, and getting on shore and building a fire and being stripped down to skin.

Raylan hasn’t had nearly enough to be drunk, but maybe there’s something about the low lights, the flash and crack of a thunderstorm, the legacy of a couple years of driving around and talking about anything and everything, and more, knowing each other as men who fought together. He’s floating a little. His mental filter has drifted off, too, because he has to ask, “Hey, did you and Mark have a thing? Back in the day?”

Tim puts the tumbler down on the tile floor. The glass clicks. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t know. You just. Forget it.” Raylan reaches for the bottle of Buffalo Trace and tops up his glass, whether it needs it or not.

“We didn’t have a thing,” Tim says. “Okay? We didn’t have anything.”

Raylan’s about to apologize, when Tim says, “Because we couldn’t.”

“Shit.” The bottle skids over the edge of the end table, out of Raylan’s hand, falls to the floor, rolls in a circle.

“I didn’t say anything, and he didn’t. And it was never anybody else. Maybe this guy I knew in high school. I don’t know.” Tim takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, slow. “So there you have it. Tim Gutterson is kind of queer. Hope that’s not a problem."

Raylan is. Stunned is probably the word. Stunned mixed with a little curl of _maybe_. “Why would it be?”

Tim’s turning the tumbler in his hands, not looking at Raylan. "I didn’t mean it about the phone sex, though. That was just a joke. I’ve never done anything with a guy.”

“It’s not that difficult,” Raylan hears himself say, and oh, fuck, he’s lost his tolerance for alcohol, he must have, or he wouldn’t be saying this shit.

“You want to expound on that theory? Something you want to tell me, Mr. Heterosexual 2012?” Tim turns to face Raylan, wary underneath the banter.

“I am not all the way straight,” Raylan says, as honest as he can muster.

“If you are fucking with me right now, I will hurt you.” Dead serious.

“I am telling the truth I swear.” Raylan leans, tips forward, gets his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Tim holds very still. “So you are telling me, you’re bi?”

“Yes,” Raylan says, licks dry lips.

“And you’ve, you’ve done something about it? We ain’t talking about having a guy crush on Gary Cooper?”

“Not before college. Not in Harlan.” Raylan says, still tipped forward towards Tim. Says, low and husky, “I can prove it.”

“You got video? Notarized affidavits?” Tim turns towards him, props his elbow on the couch.

Raylan reaches out for him, and Tim leans forward, and Raylan’s hand finds the back of Tim’s neck, and he tilts his head, and their mouths meet. At first, Raylan is tentative, lets Tim take the lead. Seems like Tim doesn’t want to push it, holding back, and then they both relax, and Tim opens his mouth, and Raylan sighs into him. Flicks his tongue over Tim’s lips, and eases off.

And because Raylan is basically a good man, he stops it there. If this wasn’t new to Tim, he’d surely be happy to go into the bedroom and have some fun. But he isn’t willing to go to bed with Tim when he’s still figuring things out. It’s not right.

So Raylan sits back, and reclaims his former spot on the couch, establishing a DMZ between them.

Tim doesn’t try to keep things going, just subsides into his former spot on the floor. Covers his nerves, the few little tells he has, with jokes. “When do you find the time for men among all the women? Follow up question: do the men have to be blond, too?”

“You talking about this with your therapist?” Raylan’s glad he’s not 17 anymore, or the lick of desire in his belly would be giving him a hard on he couldn’t hide.

Tim shrugs. “I figured, I have to sit here 45 minutes a week, maybe I should float some stuff, see what she said.”

“The good news is, casual sex is much easier to come by with other guys.”

“So I hear.” Dry as the Sahara.

“You seriously never tried it?”

“I grew up in the Bible Belt, enlisted at 17, so there was Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. And I’m more interested in women, anyway. I just don’t. There just seems to be something I’m missing.” Tim shrugs, lifts his glass. “Confession time's over. Fill that up."

Raylan excuses himself to go to bed soon after. He’s got Willa all day tomorrow and he doesn’t want to be hungover. Stretches out on the bed, wakeful. He can’t stop thinking about Tim, about touching him, about the mix of bravado and vulnerability in the kiss.

About what a mind fuck it is to think of him that way.

Raylan’s no saint, but growing up in Harlan taught him to keep that shit locked down. Admire a woman, that’s okay. Even look twice at a man...well.

So he doesn’t, not at work, not in public. He keeps a kind of wall between his day to day and the gay bars and neighborhoods he cruises in.

Raylan turns over, tells his dick to knock it off. He’s not going to jerk off to thoughts of Tim, his dick sliding over those lips, or pushing inside him, tight and yielding at the same time. Has to put his hands under the pillow to keep from reaching into his shorts. He tries banishing the unwanted thoughts with a meditation exercise he'd learned from an ex-girlfriend, long ago, and some time before midnight, he falls asleep.

When Raylan gets up the next morning, there’s a note on the half full coffee pot: _Thanks for the couch. Headed out early. Tim._

He hopes Tim is cool with what happened last night. Wonders if he should call. Decides to leave it alone. Tim has to work stuff out on his own.

 

 

Raylan calls Tim the next weekend, after he should be back in Kentucky. When Tim picks up, Raylan has no idea what to say.

Finds a few words. “I. Shit. Just checking in, I guess.”

“You’re a poet. Hang on, let me get inside.” There’s a door, and the faint shake of keys, and maybe a bag put down. “Did you see the tuna I caught? On Facebook?”

“Yep. Why didn’t you bring me some tuna steaks?” Keep it light, Givens.

“I didn’t know if it would be a good idea for me to come see you again.” Rustling, in the back ground.

“Ain’t no reason you can’t come see a friend,” Raylan says.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

There’s a silence.

“I know,” Raylan says, finally. “I hope you can see there’s nothing wrong with the very little that we did. There’s nothing wrong with any of it.”

“Are you sure? Because I’m not sure I agree.”

“If you don’t want to go down that road, Tim, don’t go.” Raylan says, a little stung.

“I don’t mean - I am not talking about being with a man.” Tim enunciates carefully, like Raylan has to have things spelled out for him. “I’m talking about me maybe taking advantage of you.”

“All we did was kiss. You might remember I was completely able to back off. Is that the problem?”

“No. I just, I didn’t want you to think I was just being an opportunist. Using you to take the next step.”

Raylan wants to reach through the phone lines and pat Tim on the head. “I don’t think you ought to rush into it. That’s why I backed off. I ain’t your only chance, and you didn’t even realize what you wanted ‘til a couple months ago.”

“Longer than that,” Tim says, followed by the sound of him cracking a beer open.

“Months, years, don’t matter. I’m not going to go along with something I’m pretty sure is against your best interests.”

“What if I went out, right now, to a queer bar and went home with the first guy who’ll have me?”

That’s a kick in the gut, even if Raylan can’t tell whether he’s serious. Sounds like something Tim would do, though.

Raylan tamps down his jealousy, and makes the effort to keep his voice even. “You’re a grown man, you can do what you want. But I won’t tell you it’s a good idea.”

“Then what? Wait six months, then go on a dinner date with some guy I met online? Run a background check first? Wear a tie? I mean, do I need a chaperone?”

“Calm the fuck down. Are you already drunk?”

“I stopped at a bar after work,” Tim says, a little sulky.

“Take a few months to get used to it.” Raylan can’t believe he’s actually discussing this with Tim. Surreal. "Then if you want to go get laid, or you want to go on a date, or you don’t want to do anything at all, well, you’ve had time to decide.”

“I just want to know if it’s right.” Tim sounds tired. “I don’t want to think about it or talk about it or worry about it anymore.”

“That’s what your shrink is for.”

“Hell with it. Won’t make any difference to me if I just forget about the whole thing. Life goes on.” The refrigerator door opens and closes, and Tim cracks another can of beer open.

“You think you can drink enough to forget what you feel? How’s that been working so far?”

Tim says, like he might say, _it’s sunny outside_ , “Go to hell.”

“Already been. It's called Harlan County. I give it one star, for the pie and the scenery."

"I don't see you waving a pride flag.”

“I keep it quiet, but I ain’t ashamed. I just - I wanted kids. I wanted,” here Raylan hesitates, then forces himself to go on. “I wanted to be the man my father wasn’t. Good husband, good father. Couldn’t do that with a boyfriend.”

“Heavy,” Tim says.

“Worked out okay so far,” says Raylan. “Aside from the divorce. Kid’s pretty good.”

“So what’re you going to do now? Ask out some women? Pick up a guy? Date him - do you date guys, or just fuck ‘em?”

“Little of both. I was seeing a guy named Will for awhile, when I first got down to Miami, after the divorce. We spent six-seven months fooling around, going out to dinner, ball games.”

“What happened? He get tired of you being shot at?”

“I think that was the part he liked. Just ran its course, I guess. That’s what he said, anyway. You might have realized, I’m not the one who usually figures these things out.”

“No shit. Listen, I got to get some shit done and get to bed. Got to be out at a raid before dawn.”

“You don’t have time for phone sex?”

“I thought I was supposed to be patient and wait for just the right boy to sweep me off my feet.”

“I did not know such a day could come, where you might take my advice.”

“Who says I am?. I’m not blowing off my dirty laundry to have phone sex with you, though. A man’s got to have some standards.”

“Okay, okay. Wait for your Prince Charming.”

“Prince Charming is boring. I want one of those lovable rogue types.”

“Han Solo is not going to call you.”

“Man, you are just not supportive of my dreams," Tim says. "I want to lose my queer cherry to Han.”

“Or, you could come see me, and I could show you some of the finer points.” Raylan works to keep it casual. He’d really love to show Tim the ropes, but he doesn’t want to be an asshole about it.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Tim doesn’t sound convinced. “I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

Raylan hangs up. Thinks. He likes Tim. Trusts him. They’ve worked together, fought together. Doled out little dribbles of their lives, dropped in here and there among casual conversation, feeling each other out before being honest in small doses.

He’s been around for a lot of the significant events of Raylan’s life, all the shit that went down in Kentucky the last few years. Not that they’d exactly shared their innermost feelings, or anything, but Tim was witness to a lot of it.

Never thought there’d be anything between them, beyond colleagues and casual friends.

Maybe all the calling back and forth, after he returned to Miami,should have been a clue.

Where he’s at right now, well, Raylan wouldn’t mind having a thing with Tim.

 

 

 

Tim next calls when Raylan is on surveillance, sitting in an old apartment in a run down neighborhood with a pair of binoculars. It’s been three weeks since last they talked, four weeks since their mutual confessions.

“Hey,” Raylan says, glad for the distraction.

“Yeah, hey. Um. That offer still open? For me to come visit?”

“It absolutely is.” Raylan clears his throat. “Any time.”

“Cuz, you know. I think I’m ready for this.”

“Listen, see what flight you can get. I can take a day or two.” Or a week. Spend it in bed.

“Probably be a weekend. We’re short staffed, as usual.” Tim’s all business.

“Let me know.” Raylan can’t stop the smile. “Sooner the better.”

“Soon as I know, I’ll text you. We don’t need to talk this to death or anything first, do we? This isn’t a Lifetime movie.”

“Uh, no. Nope. We do not. We’ll talk a little when you get here.” They’ll have to go over a few things, but Tim is pretty much always prepared. If he doesn’t arrive with a mental list of what he wants to do, Raylan will be surprised. He makes a mental note to stop for condoms and lube, just to cover all the bases.

“Okay. I’ll text you my flight.”

“You’re in charge of the beer,” Raylan says, before Tim can hang up.

“Roger that. See you soon.”

 

 

  
Raylan picks Tim up at the airport a week later, waiting on the curb ‘til Tim pushes through the doors into Miami’s summer heat. He’s got those aviators on, and a medium blue polo shirt, and he looks good.

“Let’s get the catching up out of the way,” Tim says, getting into the SUV. “Rachel’s leaving. Moving to Seattle, she’s going to head up some task force.”

“Shit. She’s not letting the grass grow under her feet.”

“Nope. Don’t blame her. Marshal Service owes her, at least. Figure she should take advantage of that.”

“What about you? You’ve got to have some in-good-standing.”

Tim shrugs, puts his seat belt on.

“You took charge of a lot of the Boyd Crowder man hunt,” Raylan says.

“First time I had the chance to anything like that since I got my star." Tim shrugs. "I guess I don’t see it as that big a deal. Did that shit all the time in the Rangers.”

“Got to make your own luck in the Marshal Service,” Raylan says, merges into traffic.

“You think we didn’t have workplace politics in the Rangers? I got it covered, man. Don’t worry about it.”

"Okay. You eat?" It's just about dinner time.

“Had a snack on the plane. There’s stuff we should probably talk about,” Tim says. “Like stuff you do and don’t do.”

“I expect I do whatever you’re thinking of trying out,” Raylan says. “What with being a beginner and all.”

The early evening traffic isn’t bumper to bumper, which is pretty good for a Friday night in Miami. Lets Raylan give Tim more of his attention.

“I bet I know more than you think,” Tim says.

“Please remember that porn isn’t real.”

“I haven’t watched that much. Gay stuff.” Tim says. “I did find some instructional videos.”

“I thought maybe you'd been binge watching porn and that’s why you called me.”

“Nope. I called you because the videos don’t do much for me. Real sex with a real man is what I want.”

Raylan appreciates that Tim is so straightforward about this. He hates dancing around the subject when it comes to getting laid. “I’ve got condoms and lube, but we don’t need ‘em unless you want to fuck.”

“Boy scout. And yeah, I want you to fuck me.”

Raylan almost drives the SUV into a storefront.

Tim seems unfazed. “Maybe I should have taken a cab.”

“I’m going to have to ask you not to talk to me until we get inside my place,” Raylan says.

“Sounds like you might be a little hard up.” Tim rolls down the window and takes in a lungful of hot air. “Do I smell the ocean?”

“I am not hard up,” Raylan says, reaches over to the console to turn the AC up, and their arms bump. He sucks in a breath at the thrill of the contact. “Okay, I am hard up, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had opportunities.”

“I thought you’d have hot and cold running blondes down here,” Tim says.

“More interested in hanging out with my little girl, I guess.”

“FYI, I am willing to look at baby pictures, but not until tomorrow.”

“Good to know.”

Tim follows Raylan from the parking lot into the apartment building, duffel slung over his shoulder, hanging back two paces, the way they'd been trained, an ingrained habit now with them after working together in Kentucky, one of them doing the talking and the second covering him.

“I told Winona I have a date, so she won’t call unless there’s an emergency with the baby.” Raylan drops his hat on the coffee table, along with his keys, and turns to Tim. “I told the office I’d be out of town so they won’t call me about any bullshit problem. The fridge is stocked-”

Tim grabs his shirt and kisses him. Instinct takes Raylan over, and he drags Tim closer by his belt and the kisses become open mouthed, deep. Desperate.

“We should talk about a few things,” Raylan says, pulling back a centimeter.

“I’m clean,” Tim says.

“Me, too.”

“I want to suck you off,” Tim says, hungry. “Right here on the couch.”

“Oh, yeah. Shirt, shirts off,” Raylan says, resisting Tim’s pull.

He can’t say he’s seen Tim shirtless that often, having long since learned to not take a chance on betraying interest in a colleague, but Tim has no body consciousness at all, and Raylan’s had some glimpses. Suffice to say, that Raylan’s pleased with the real thing, when he finally gets to eye him up.

“Keep up,” Tim says, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Oh,” Raylan says, caught staring, and the nerves he hadn’t been allowing himself to feel wash through him. He grabs the hem of his Miami Marlins tee shirt and pulls it up.

“There we go,” Tim says, looking him over. Appreciative.

They get back to kissing, slower, and Raylan lets Tim run eager hands over his torso, shoulders and biceps and chest, brushing his nipples. Raylan shivers some at that, sensitive there with men more than women, a mystery he’s never had an answer for. His own hands span around Tim’s sides, reaching for the dip of spine in the small of his back. He wants to look and touch, too, but he can wait.

Raylan takes a step back and another, keeping Tim with him, finds the couch with the backs of his calves and slides down to sprawl back. Tim shoves the coffee table away, surveys him like he’s making a plan.

“C’mere,” Raylan says, tugs on Tim’s pant leg, gets him to kneel over his lap. He drops his palm to Tim’s dick, hardening in his pants, doesn’t expect to get the high pitched gasp, flicks his eyes up to Tim’s. “Okay?”

Tim can’t nod fast enough. Braces his arm against the back of the couch as Raylan draws his palm up and down his hard-on, not too strong, sometimes real soft. Like he’s concentrating, Tim's eyes are half closed,

Then Tim grasps his wrist, sounds a little breathless. “Hold off, I want to wait. To come.”

“Alright, okay,” Raylan says, runs his hands up Tim’s belly and chest, getting a feel for his soft-ish belly, strong chest, hair crinkling, nipples peaking against his palms.

Tim reaches between them, tugs open the fly of Raylan’s jeans, gets a handful of his thickening cock, drops his head against Raylan’s, feeling his way. Raylan’s hips stutter up, as much as he can with Tim straddling his thighs.

“I’m gonna -”

“Go ahead,” Raylan says, and Tim slides onto the floor, onto his knees, between Raylan’s splayed thighs.

He hesitates, and Raylan wants to smile, though he tries to suppress it. He wants Tim to be comfortable doing this, and that means letting him take his time if he needs to. Not like Raylan isn’t enjoying the sight of Tim - tough, competent, unflappable Tim, Tim who knows Raylan as well as anybody, and still wants to have sex with him - between his legs.

Then Tim’s pulling one of his boots off, and then the other. He licks his lips. “Everything off,” he says, decisive.

Raylan lifts up and Tim gets hold of jeans and boxers and draws the fabric down Raylan’s legs, fighting a little to get the last of the denim over his feet. He yanks and then tosses the clothing aside. Something small falls and clatters.

Then Tim’s reaching for Raylan’s cock, exploring with careful fingers, tracing the head with his thumb, the vein on the underside. Taking him in a loose-firm grip that Raylan would bet actual cash money is exactly the way Tim holds onto his own dick when jerking off. Raylan resists the urge to drop his head back, spread his legs, and fall into a pleasure fog.

“I’ll tell you if you do something I don’t like,” Raylan says. “The only deal breaker I got is teeth.”

“That’s my deal breaker, too,” Tim says. A few experimental strokes, and again, Raylan feels like he’s being studied, and tactical plans are being drawn up.

“Tim. Man, you cannot screw this up,” Raylan says.

“Oh, I ain’t worried,” Tim says, with a grin, nudges Raylan’s knee aside another inch, and goes down on Raylan’s dick.

His mouth is hot, like every blow job ever, but the little workings of Tim’s mouth and tongue as he gets used to having a dick in his mouth are like a fingerprint. All his.

Raylan winds a hand into Tim’s hair, the short strands slipping along his fingers, more to maintain a connection than to guide him. From where he’s sitting, Tim is doing just fine.

It quickly becomes clear that Tim has either done a lot of reading, or spent a lot of time thinking about what he wants to do to Raylan’s hard-on. Raylan approves, murmurs, _right there, that’s good,_ as Tim works him with tongue and hand.

And when Raylan can’t hold back anymore, he mutters, _Tim, I’m close, I’m gonna come_ , Tim swipes his tongue under the head, pushes at the little knot of nerves right there, apparently determined to swallow, and Raylan lets hits his peak, pulses into Tim's mouth, finishing with ragged thrusts that Tim rides out pretty well for a first timer.

Tim sits back, wipes his hand over his mouth, reaches down and adjusts his hard cock.

Raylan slides off the couch. “Let me,” he says, and Tim wriggles out of his pants and boxers, and Raylan pushes him back on the floor, and takes his painfully hard dick into his mouth.

Tim lasts about two minutes, lets Raylan do most of the work, so ready, and he comes with a grunt, the sort of masculine sound that Raylan’s missed.

They sprawl side by side on the tiled floor, breathing slowing.

“B+,” Raylan says. “Well above average blow job.”

“Thanks,” Tim drawls, and he sounds pretty pleased. Then, “You need some rugs.”

“God, you really are queer,” Raylan says.

“Mostly my knees are kind of pissed at me,” Tim says. “You got any beer?”

“You’re in charge of beer,” Raylan says. But he rolls upright, leans over and kisses Tim, and goes into the kitchen. He comes back with a couple of microbrews.

Raylan’s done for at least an hour, maybe two, given how loose and fucked out he’s feeling. Waiting is fine with him. More time to anticipate.

“How about I’ll be in charge of beer tomorrow? I really don’t plan on putting on pants again tonight,” Tim says, sprawled out buck naked on the floor.

“I suppose that’s acceptable. We got the rest of the six pack to tide us over.”

Tim levers himself up and stretches over his knees, compact and strong.

Beautiful, from where Raylan's sitting. 

Tim sits there, naked, drawing sips off the bottle. “You got anything to eat?”

They put on boxers and make sandwiches, at ease with each other. As they eat, Tim checks email on his phone and taps out a few short replies.

Probably, over the last couple years, Raylan’s eaten more meals with Tim than anybody but Winona. Maybe more, if you count sitting in the car eating fast food along with the diners and barbecue joints and farmer’s markets - Tim likes farmer’s markets, buys fruit and cheese and nibbles on them all day in the car - plus snacks. Tim with string cheese and tangerines and such, Raylan with vanilla ice cream cones and BBQ chips and sour green apples.

Sort of ignoring each other at work while eating is one thing, but sitting across from each other reading or doing phone shit seems somehow wrong after getting up close and intimate.

“So Rachel’s moving to the Seattle office?” Raylan shakes a few more chips from the bag onto his plate.

“In two weeks,” Tim says. “There’s an organized crime task force they want her to head up. She’s been shopping herself around, with Art’s help.”

“Puts her in a good position for her own office.”

Tim nods. “That’s what she’s looking for.”

“You think she doesn’t deserve it?”

“I think she’s a damn good Marshal.” Tim says, taking a slug off his beer, “I also think she made some rookie mistakes in a pretty important operation, with Crowder.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Raylan thinks things turned out pretty okay even if they didn’t get Ava, or most of the money.

Tim dusts his hands off, a few crumbs land on his plate. “You shouldn’t have been involved. You were way too close to it.”

Raylan stops with his beer bottle raised. “You didn’t say anything at the time.”

“Wasn’t my place,” Tim says, shrugs.”Once she and Vasquez got going on it, I figured I’d just do my job and back you up.”

“Seriously, you thought I couldn’t be professional?” Raylan’s stung.

“It’s not about being professional. It’s about the little shit, shit you don’t think about. You trusted Ava at least twice when you shouldn’t, probably because you grew up with her, probably because you used to be involved with her. Look, it was a successful op, so I know some stuff got waved off, but why the hell did you cuff her hands in the front, and put her in the passenger seat?”

Raylan wants to let loose on him, but he holds it back. He’s asked himself the same question, and doesn't have a good answer, and that makes him uncomfortably aware of his fuck ups. And just because they are whatever they are now, just because they’re friends, doesn't mean that Tim's going to go easy on him.

“I don’t think I want to keep talking about this.” Raylan doesn’t want to argue, doesn’t want to dissect that day any more than he already has. He gets up and heads into the living room. Stands in front of the stereo, debates what to put on. Chooses a homemade CD out of the bookcase, a couple dozen of his favorite blues tunes, and puts it in the player.

Behind him, there’s a clink of dishes, water running. Fridge opening and closing. Then the music starts, and Raylan counts down from ten. Rolls his shoulders and heads to the couch.

Tim pads into the room.

“Sorry,” Tim says, hands him another beer. He runs a hand through his hair. “Guess I’m a little. Wound up. Rattled.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have let her get the drop on Boyd, I should never have handled her so leniently when we arrested her. I guess I could never resist her, in the end.”

“I guess it's not important. Thing's over and done with,” Tim says. He’s looking over Raylan’s CD collection, pulls a few out , then pushes them back in without really looking at them.

“Not to sound like a bad TV show, but are you okay?” Raylan says.

Tim says, “I’m kind of all over the place. In a good way, I guess.”

“Did I blow your mind?” Raylan grins at him. He knows he gives a damn fine blow job.

“Uh. Kind of,” Tim says, flushing, a little.

Raylan grins. “I am just that good.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Any guy could have done that.”

“But you graciously allowed it to be me.”

“Exactly. Consider being grateful.” Tim drops into the arm chair.

“C’mere.”

“I just sat down.”

“Suit yourself.”

Tim gets up, pads over to Raylan, and Raylan folds his fingers around Tim’s forearm, right over this sniper rifle tattoo, and tugs.

“Are you serious?”

“Get down here and make out with me.”

Tim ends up pressed against Raylan's side.

It’s awkward and takes a bit to get comfortable, and it’s sweet how hesitant Tim seems to feel about it. Used to being in Raylan's position. Raylan doesn’t give him time to think, just kisses him until he relaxes.

“We can do anything you want,” Raylan says, into the space between them. “Check everything off your list.”

“Shut up,” Tim says, and kisses him again. And, “How do you know I have a list?”

“I know you,” Raylan says.

“I don’t know if we have time for everything,” Tim says. “You’re what, 41?”

“You’re a dick.”

“Says the middle aged guy.”

“That don’t even make sense,” Raylan says. When Tim opens his mouth to retort, he mutters, “Aw, hush, and let me get my hands on you.”

Making out ensues. Tim is a lot of hard muscle, all wiry strength until Raylan finds his hot spots, under his ear, the back of his thigh, his throat, and he uncoils against him. Raylan’s mouth and hands in the right places elicit tiny noises from Tim that might grow up to become whimpers, given the chance.

Tim gives as good as he gets, wastes no time in finding Raylan’s sensitive zones, starting with his nipples, the soft skin at the crease of his thigh, the back of his neck. His hands are sure, sensitive despite the gun callouses, shaping around Raylan’s ribs, chest and back, over his spine and what he can reach of his hips and thighs.

Slowly, like a project they’re working on together, they build arousal.

The CD ends and trails off, leaving a silence punctuated by the damp sound of mouths, slow kisses and sucks on skin.

Both of them are breathing like they’ve settled into a good run, a little harder, a little faster, but deep into the lungs.

“Bed?” Tim asks. Or maybe he’s telling.

Raylan’s totally on board so it doesn’t matter. “Yeah.”

After some testing and stretching of legs, Tim reaches for Raylan’s arm.

“I know where it is,” Raylan says, turns and slides his slides his wrist and he’s holding Tim’s hand.

Tim stills, just a part of a second, and then starts walking, tugging Raylan along behind him. “Come on, cowboy.”

He skins out of boxers for the second time that night, as Raylan does the same, and Raylan throws the light blanket back, to the bottom of the king sized bed.

Knowing each other from a hundred dangerous situations, as backup and security and hunting partner, pays off in the bedroom in ways Raylan hadn’t expected. There’s a minimum of flailing limbs and stray elbows, an awareness of each other that in Raylan’s experience only appears after months of going to bed with someone.

Kissing again, kissing Raylan can’t get enough of, pressing together, rolling so Raylan’s leaning down to find Tim’s mouth, half crazy with the feel of all of him, stretched together, strong thighs and chests meeting, the firm, warm weight of Tim’s hard on. The buzzing electricity of his own arousal, centered in the heavy weight of his dick, flares at the press of Tim’s leg.

His hips jerk a thrust along Tim’s thigh, can’t help it, and he rolls back before he ends up just rubbing off against him.

“You got to tell me what you want to do,” Raylan says. Adds, meaning, _we don’t have to rush_ , “We got all weekend.”

“Fuck me,” Tim says. “Please.”

“Okay,” Raylan says. He’s not going to waste time asking Tim if he’s sure. He props up on his elbow and opens a drawer in the table next to the bed, pulls out a bottle of lube. A packet of rubbers. “I’m clean, but -”

“So am I,” Tim says. “But if you want to glove up -”

“I don’t want to. But this isn’t -”

“I get tested once a year, just got tested a month ago,” Tim says. “Nothing you can get from me. And if you had anything, you wouldn’t have let me suck your dick, right? I’d like it bare, but it’s not a dealbreaker, if you want to cover it up.”

“Just trying to be responsible, being the more experienced fella in the room,” Raylan says, with a grin.

“Raylan Givens being responsible? Call Guinness.”

Raylan shoves his shoulder. “You want me to fuck you or not? Cause if you’re going to keep sassing me, I got a book to read.”

“I wouldn’t know how to stop sassing you,” Tim says. “We can settle this if you tell me when you got tested last.”

“Two months ago. After Winona. And I’ve been safe with anyone casual before that. There hasn’t been anyone since.”

“There you go.” Tim tosses the box of condoms toward the drawer, misses by an inch and the box tumbles to the floor.

Raylan pops the cap on the lube. It’s pricey, but worth it. Great for fucking a guy. His dick gets a little harder as he rubs slick between his fingers, like Pavlov’s dog. Fucking a guy has to be about one of his favorite things in the bedroom.

Tim takes the bottle out of his hand, lays back. Coats his fingers, draws up one leg, reaches down, and strokes his hole. “Like what you see?”

So he’s staring. Raylan’s okay with that. He licks his lips, “Fuck. Yes.”

Tim smirks. “I’ve been playing with a few toys,” he says.

Raylan’s dick reaches ‘painfully hard’ on the arousal meter, picturing Tim with a dildo, working it in, maybe wincing and shifting to make room inside himself. Fucking into his fist as he gets used to it.

“Maybe I’ll show you sometime,” Tim says, a little breathless, eyes closing, concentrating.

Raylan closes the distance between them. “Let me.” More slick on his fingers, and he strokes down from Tim’s balls, down to his hole, feather light, and Tim gulps air.

Way different when someone else does it, Raylan knows from his own first ventures into queer sex. Sex with women, too.

He takes his time, for Tim’s sake, no matter how much he thinks he’s ready, or how much he’s willing to just plunge ahead, and yeah, because Raylan loves this, touching someone at their most vulnerable, being trusted to treat him right.

He presses. Tim opens up for his finger, and his breath hitches. He’s still pretty hard, though, so Raylan isn’t too worried he’s hurting him.

“Okay?” Raylan strokes his soft inner walls, wanting to reach every nerve ending.

“Fantastic,” Tim says, sweating a little. “Like you’re lighting me up from the inside.”

“That’s what I was going for. Better than a dildo, right?” Raylan’s got a couple of fingers a couple inches in him, debates whether to add more or go deeper. In his experience, a body will open up for his dick if he goes slow, and fingering your boy is more about getting him as turned on as he can than stretching him.

“So far,” Tim says, sassing back even now. His hand twitches toward his hard dick, but he leaves it alone. Probably doesn’t want to come too fast.

“You ready for more?” Raylan scissors his two fingers, a slow stretch.

“Ready for the real thing,” Tim says. “Come on, cowboy, get your dick in me.”

Raylan is so on board with that. “How you want it? You want to ride me?”

“Like this,” Tim says, and hooks a leg around Raylan’s waist. When Raylan doesn’t respond right away, he adds, “I’m flexible. Can’t break me.”

“I ain’t hesitating. I’m just trying not to come,” Raylan says, grabs the bottle of lube where it’s rolled down against his leg. Covers his dick, dribbles lube over Tim’s hole. Hitches closer, guides Tim’s other leg over his shoulder. Considers. “Hand me that pillow.”

Works the pillow under Tim’s ass for a better angle. Takes his dick in hand, rubs the head against Tim’s hole.

“Come on, please,” Tim says, breathing harder. “I want this. I want you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Raylan says. The head of his dick pushes, presses for entry, slow, slow, and Tim unfurls for him, lets him in. Hot, soft, flesh welcomes his dick, Tim’s breathy, _yes_ , and then a gasp as the head becomes fully seated in him. Sweat prickles between Raylan’s shoulder blades, heat of desire and the effort of holding back, heart pounding a heavy beat.

A little more, and a little more, and that's all of it, and Raylan holds there to catch his breath, overwhelmed with hot-tight-smooth. He swears he can feel the pulse in his own dick, maybe even Tim’s heartbeat. “You good?”

Tim sounds a little strained. “Yeah. Not what I was expecting.”

Raylan frowns.

A hand takes hold of Raylan’s arm. “Hey. It’s good. You’re good. I want more. Okay?”

That’s enough for Raylan. Says. “Tell me you need anything.”

Eases slowly back, and then in again, makes sure Tim can take him easy, both ways, and then on his next return, nudges up.

Tim gasps, and tightens his legs, like he’s trying to pull Raylan closer. Raylan grins, drops his head, and gets to work, slow building to fast thrusts, sliding along Tim’s sweet spot, surprising grunts out of him. Tim drops his hand down to his own dick, jerks himself in rhythm with Raylan.

Raylan draws it out, best he can, ‘til they’re both sweating, but he can’t stave off coming forever, no matter how sweet it feels to spiral deeper and deeper into arousal, and his thrusts get rougher, wilder, and Raylan has to grin when Tim starts fucking back at him, shoving down to meet him, head tossed back and hand working his dick.

When Tim comes with hoarse gasp, spattering his hand and stomach, his hole ripples around Raylan’s dick, and Raylan barely gets another two strokes in before he comes, shoving rough and deep as he shoots his seed.

Tim’s leg drops off his shoulder, and Raylan pulls out with care. Maybe Tim winces a little, but Raylan’s not sure. He lets himself down slow to lay on Tim, breathing hard. That was. That was good. Better than good.

“Thanks,” Tim says, voice low and rough. He pats Raylan’s head, where he’s pressed to Tim’s chest.

“Mmm.” Raylan finds some words. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” Tim says. Sounds like he's smiling.

“Gonna lay here for a minute,” Raylan says, a mumble against Tim’s skin.

“Take all the time you want,” Tim says. He draws his hand over Raylan’s back, an idle movement, like petting a cat.

However comfortable and fucked out he is, Raylan has to move sometime. He’s starting to get that sticky feeling, and when that happens, the afterglow is done. He rolls to the side, and Tim stretches all over, again maybe winces.

“Did I hurt you?” Raylan’s pretty sure he didn’t.

“Little sore,” Tim says, rolling onto his side facing Raylan. “Like using a muscle in a new way.”

Quiet, for a bit, and car sounds, a few voices in the parking lot.

“I kind of like it,” Tim adds, eyes closing.

Wow, is Raylan not surprised at that. He’s always suspected Tim might be a little bit of a masochist, and he’s only a little bit joking when he says that. “Hey, now can’t sleep yet. Come on, we got to clean up first.”

“You’re sort of inconveniently right sometimes,” Tim says, and sits up, goes into the bathroom.

While he’s waiting his turn, Raylan goes into the kitchen, pours a big glass of limeade, with some ice, and drinks half. He presses the glass into Tim’s hand and takes his turn in the bathroom.

Raylan rejoins Tim on the bed, and they share a few kisses, closed mouth, not talking.

Tim falls asleep, limp and sprawling on Raylan’s white sheets, soon after.

It’s still early, just about ten, and Raylan slides out of bed and goes out to watch the early news. He’s about as limp as an old dishrag himself, but sometimes sex wake his brain right up, and right now, he’s alert and humming along.

Raylan can’t say he’d be upset if this weekend with Tim turned into something regular. Brightens him right up, in fact.

He’s got Willa, and that makes a difference in his life that he’d never believed in ‘til it happened: she is first, last, and everything. Got his job in Miami back, out of Kentucky, in a place where half the population is from somewhere else and feuds are something you see on the History Channel. Got free of his father, left a ton of that shit behind, and he ain’t choking on it anymore. Got a new outlook: the future doesn’t look half bad.

He wouldn’t mind adding Tim to that list, all his sass and drive to go for what he wants, the understanding they already have. The sex, where so far they're really compatible.

That’s a question for another day, and not just for him either. Hell. Tim might want to sow some oats, and he’s never been one for long relationships. But Raylan doesn’t have any expectations any longer. Wants to enjoy what he can while he can. Short term or long, he’d like Tim to stick around some.

 

 

 

Rachel calls Tim Sunday morning. His flight back isn’t until five, so they’re still lounging around the apartment. Raylan is hoping for another blow job before Tim leaves, is idly considering suggesting they go to the beach for a few hours. They’ll have to shower after, which will be convenient for sucking some dick.

Saturday they spent fooling around, eating food, drinking beer. Watched a movie and listened to some music.

They’d fucked again, Raylan taking him from behind, covering him as he moved in him, Tim arching his spine and pushing back to meet him. Fallen asleep tangled together, though they’d woken on opposite sides of the bed this morning.

Rubbed off against each other, hand jobs in the kitchen. 

“I’m in Florida,” Tim says to Rachel. “I had some miles to use up.”

A pause, and he listens. “Bunking with Raylan, actually. What is this, reality TV? Well, go ahead and send ‘em, but I ain’t going to be living there, so it’s not like I give a fuck.” He sets the phone down. “Where’s your laptop? Rachel’s emailing me some photos from Seattle. Wants me to look at the apartments she’s considering.”

“Are you her decorator now?” But Raylan goes to get his laptop, which he will admit he bought because most of his pictures of Willa are digital, and settles next to Tim, who slides over the ten inches between them so he can put the laptop on both their legs. Raylan stretches his arm along the back of the sofa to give him room.

The apartments Rachel’s looking at all have water views.

“She’s fucking with us,” Raylan says, drops his arm around Tim’s shoulders. Tim slumps into him, comfortable like a cat.

“No shit. How could she possible treat us so shabbily?”

The next few pictures are pretty standard shots of the city, and the final one is the interior of a bookstore: worn old armchairs, mismatched shelves, books for miles.

Conversationally, Tim says, “That bitch.”

“Knows how to get you where you live.”

“Which is not where that cool bookstore is.”

“You can always transfer.”

“Too rainy. And earthquakey.” Tim types a quick reply to Rachel, something rude, hits send, and logs out.

Raylan gets up and goes into the kitchen for more coffee. Says, over his shoulder. “You ain’t going to be stuck in Kentucky forever.”

“Don’t start. Unlike you, I don’t hate Kentucky, and I don’t have to like the new Chief to work with him.”

Raylan wipes his hands on a paper towel, and puts his plate in the sink. “I ain’t saying nothing. You want to go to the beach?”

The beach is a great idea. Raylan greatly approves of a soaking wet Tim wearing only shorts. Shorts that happen to hang low on his hips and plaster close to his ass.

“I was thinking,” Raylan says, stretched out on a towel next to Tim, both of them drying in the sun. Tim’s reading a Terry Pratchett paperback, _Guards! Guards!_ , and wearing those aviators. Should look ridiculous, but Raylan thinks it’s, well, not adorable, but just so very _Tim_ , and that pleases him. “What would you say to making this a regular thing, you and me?”

Tim looks up from his book, and Raylan can’t read his expression. “You couldn’t have come up with that when we lived in the same city?”

“Nope.”

Tim finds a bookmark and slots it into the book. “I like the sound of that. Does this mean you’ll be coming back to Kentucky at all? Or am I always coming here?”

Raylan hadn’t quite thought about that. “I could fly up, sometimes. If you want.”

Tim shoves the sunglasses up onto his head. “You’d miss time with Willa if you came to see me. I don’t want to get in the way of that.”

“How about you come down here, when you can, and I’ll pay for half the flights?”

“That’s a lot of money just to get laid.”

“Ain’t just getting laid. I like having you around.”

“You better. It took me two years to break you in.”

A question that Raylan hadn’t planned to ask slips out. “We’re you interested in me, back in Lexington?”

“Nope. You were covered in women, and I don’t date people I work with. Not in a really small office like that.” Tim says. “Plus, the being repressed thing.”

There are people all around them, kids and couples and old folks, and sea gulls laughing, and the smell of sunblock and a hamburger cart, and Raylan leans over and kisses Tim, right there in public, to seal the deal.

Tim doesn’t shove him away. When Raylan sits back, he mostly notices that Tim looks smug.

“Let’s go back to your place and get cleaned up,” Tim says.

“Sounds good,” Raylan say.

It’s just about noon. If the traffic isn’t bad, they might have time for two blow jobs.

 

 

 

When Raylan gets back to his place after dropping Tim at the airport, he puts away a few CDs, corrals a few glasses.

Paces through the apartment, coming down from the last 48 hours. Pretty contented.  This weekend was a good start, bonds already starting to form, winding gentle tentacles between them. Making something solid out of nothing. 

Without thinking about it, Raylan had asked Tim to call him when the plane landed, the sort of ordinary thing he'd always said to Winona.

Tim had rolled his eyes, but promised. Then he’d kissed him goodbye, right there in the airport, lingering, and gotten in the security line.

The apartment seems a little empty with just him, but Tim will be back in a few weeks, and meanwhile, there's the phone, and Skype, and Raylan's grateful for the chance to get some rest. Rehydrate.

Nothing else to do right now. He's invited over to Winona's for dinner, to see Willa, and until then, he's going to chill out.

Goes into the bedroom to get his book.

There’s a paperback sitting on his side of the bed, the Terry Pratchett book Tim had been reading, instead of his George Pelecanos novel. The cover has a dragon on it, and what seems like some sort of medieval guards.

There’s a post-it note stuck to the cover: _Raylan. Read me. Has cops AND dragons._

Raylan laughs, out loud. Kicks off his boots, lays back on the bed, and opens it up.

Tim’s bookmark is still in it.

Raylan's going to take that as a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Things are going a little better here at the ol' homestead, despite a bout of flu. 
> 
> My other Justified stories are still in the pipeline, never fear.
> 
> I was pretty pleased with the series finale, though I admit I've long considered the show just one version of events.


End file.
